Twisting Time
by Eccentric75885
Summary: Chapter Six! The place can change, the times can change, but will Sherlock Holmes and Mary Russell change? Just updated to include disclaimer.
1. Chapter One

I do not in anyway own the characters and universes created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Laurie R. King. This disclaimer is in use for the fictional work created by "Eccentric75885" during the time that "Twisting Time" is in creation. No profit is being made.

Chapter One

Sussex, England 1923

The Bees seemed livelier today then they had in a long time. "Mrs. Hudson!" the strong call of my husband called out to our dear friend and housekeeper. At the moment I was sitting in the kitchen pouring through yet another catalogue. Lately, Mrs. Hudson had had strong back pains so we, or at least I, had been looking into more modern conveniences for the cottage so that Mrs. Hudson would not have to work as hard. Stoves, sinks, plugs, there seemed to be an array of new items available.

"Mrs. Hudson!" My husband cried out again. No doubt he needed something from her. The woman got up from the table quickly and went to his laboratory. We exchanged a quick smile.

I sat back studying the conveniences. Many things had changed since the time of oil lamps and hansoms. Mrs. Hudson then came back into the kitchen. "The man has set fire to the room!"

"Fire?" I got up.

"Yes," she got some towels and a bucket. "One of those experiments."

"I suppose he needs our help."

"His exact words were, 'Unless my wife is not entranced with the overbearing powers of Hebrew verbs and you are not doing anything of importance then come back with Russell and help me extinguish this dreaded fire!' And, Mary, it was the funniest site I've ever seen!" She grinned merrily at me, her cheeks flushed.

"Is the fire bad, is it spreading?"

"Heavens no. And no thanks to him either! I managed to get some if it our when I went up there, but come now, just to be safe," with that we went up. As we neared the lab, she told me of his disheveled state and how upset he was. He was so upset, she said, that it was funny.

"Holmes, open the door," I cried out.

"Ah, there you are," he coughed, "Russell." A stream of smoke drifted out as he opened the lab door.

"Why on earth don't you have the door open?" He didn't answer. As I glanced about the room I saw that there was no fire. The smoke had come from some sort of tube. A plumber's tool, I later found out. "Mrs. Hudson?" I turned to her. She was smiling a knowing smile. It was then that I noticed she had left the towels and bucket in the kitchen. "Holmes?" I asked.

"Happy Anniversary Russell," he stated and hugged me.

I as, you no doubt will realize, was shocked. An anniversary? He actually took notice to this? "Holmes, I, I," In truth I was at a loss for words.

"Your welcome Russell, oh look at that, Mrs. Hudson as left and closed the door," he said softly.

"Oh," I glanced back, "So she has."

"Now we can work on that experiment I was telling you about," and he pulled away slightly from our embrace.

"Not just yet," I said, and then I kissed him on the lips slowly, as I backed away, he looked at me closely. "Happy Anniversary Holmes."

A moment later, we began looking at the experiment details. The experiment, as Holmes had explained to me in great interest the previous day was one of scientific relativity. "You see Russell, with these reactions, we can explain much about the universe."

"Holmes," I sighed, "Isn't this a bit beyond your normal field of experimentation?"

"Nonsense, I've been working on these particular experiments for decades."

"Oh, and have you come far?"

"Far enough," he said somewhat bitterly.

"Holmes what is it?"

"Nothing, just thinking back to a time when this was the most important thing in the world."

"And now?" I asked.

"And now I wish I could change some things in the past."

He was wishing about his past. In all my years of knowing him, of loving him, I had hardly ever heard of him wish of the past in such a way.

"Holmes, husband, what troubles you?"

"Choices Russell, choices."

"And me?"

He turned back to me, for all along he had been looking intently at a beaker. "I wouldn't change anything about you." With that, we hugged again, and I could tell he no longer regretted the past as much.

The day slowly drifted into night and soon we were sitting downstairs in front of the fire. The weather was normal for mid February, the wind was strong and cold and the snow falling at a steady pace. Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed, after wishing Holmes and I happy anniversary several times and kissing us each on the cheeks quite a few times.

Then, suddenly, I heard a fierce cry. A cry of pain, despair, agony.

"Holmes did you hear that? It sounded like a person." There it was again. It was louder, fiercer, almost as if it were getting closer.

"Nothing, you're sure?" He set down his pipe.

"There it is again!"

"You're positive, that it's a person and not the storm?" He stood up.

"Yes, yes, it's someone outside. We have to help," with that we were soon both dressed in warm coats. In my haste, I left my slippers on. Once the door was open however it was too late. The frigid air clung to my bare ankles and seemingly ate away the skin.

"Do you see anyone?" cried out Holmes above the wind.

"No!" I shouted back, then I glanced out and out of the corner of my eye I saw a large shadow. "There!" I slowly walked over, lifting my legs high above the snow. My feet felt as though they would freeze.

"Russell!" cried out Holmes. I glanced back and suddenly I didn't see him. I didn't see the cottage, the snow, and the shadow. Nothing. Everything was gone. The world had gone black.

"Hello?" I cried out. "Can anyone hear me?" Only the echo of my frightened voice met my ears. The world was black, blacker then night. What had happened? Suddenly a firm object found its place in my gut, I grunted softly and suddenly saw a faint yellow light.

"Hello!" I cried out again. The light was far above my head. What was it? It slowly drifted, down, down, down. The object found its place in my gut at the same spot again. A sharp bolt of pain drifted into my senses. The light was suddenly right before my eyes, dangling back and forth in a mesmerizing way.

Then it too was gone.

On a boat, London, England, 1887

"Murray, look," the small man at the side of the boat pointed down into the water.

"Jesus Christ!" Murry, clad in uniform looked down at the young woman. Her

hair was plastered about her on the water.

"You think she alive?" The small man turned toward the British officer.

"I don't know, but we have to get her out of the water, for if she isn't dead yet she soon will be. Here get the oars."

The two men in the small boat got some oars and slowly pried the unconscious woman out of the water. "Onto the deck, onto the deck," quickly they heaved her onboard.

"She alive?" The small man said in broken English.

"I think so, I can only do so much for her, and we need to get to John's fast."

"John is good, yes."

"Yes he is a good doctor."

"He not expecting you, no?"

"No, not today Hari. Let's pull in here, we're close enough, I'll call a cab, you dry her off, quickly."

221 B Baker Street, London, England, 1887

"I say Holmes this is odd, even for you."

"Watson, Watson, Watson, I just need you to tell me how you feel."

"Holmes I must persist, when you said you needed help in regards toward an experiment I imagined that I would hold bottles or test tubes or record, but this, this," Watson trailed off, a nervous gleam in his eye. Holmes stood calmly holding the two rats.

"Just react normally." Saying this, Holmes took a paintbrush and painted the front left paw of one of the rats. "So we can tell them apart."

"This is ridiculous!"

"Nonsense, if I can discover a similar reaction among men to this, then prisoner interrogation will come to it's peak in success!"

"I think there is a law against this Holmes! You can't possibly do this," Watson persisted. "At least untie my hands and feet!"

"No, sorry, I need to have the full effect!"

"Couldn't you try this on Lastrade or someone, one of the irregulars or something?"

"Later, but it's three in the morning, I wouldn't want to bother anyone!"

Watson rolled his eyes, "Your bothering me Holmes!"

"Am I? So sorry."

Suddenly a sharp knock came at the door. "What is it Mrs. Hudson?" Cried out Holmes.

"Mr. Holmes there are some people to meet Doctor Watson!"

"Well Watson, it seems our little experiment will have to be postponed."

Watson breathed a sigh of relief. "Untie me quickly!"

Quickly, the sitting room was put back to its normal cluttered, untidy way and the two rats were put speedily into Holmes' desk drawer.

"Come in!" shouted Holmes in a furry of excitement as he through the remaining bits of rope behind his chair near the fireplace.

"A Mr. James Murray to see the doctor."

"Murray?" Watson breathed out slowly.

"John! Old fellow it's so good to see you!" Murray entered the room and shook hands with Watson. Hari followed, carrying the young woman.

"What is this?" Watson asked shortly glancing at the small man, obviously from India, both by his garb and skin tone and the young woman he held closely.

"Ah, yes, well we found her floating in the river, and I thought she would require a full medical doctor, I did as much as I could for her, but I didn't have the equipment," Murray explained quickly.

"Oh, to Holmes' room, you don't mind, do you Holmes? Good, place her in their, Holmes would you get my bag, ah thank you." With that Watson followed Hari, and James Murray to Holmes' room.

Authors note: This is my first supernatural/Time Travel thing. Be kind and rewind. ((Winces, yes that was low)) How about this, Be kind and review. Better::grins: This fic doesn't have to do with my other Russell/Holmes fic, which if you haven't read, may grant you some entertainment. Also, I am not very well versed in the Canon dates ((save me!)) so if there are any large, notable, totally unforgivable errors, please, please, please let me know in a kind and courteous way. Yet again, before you go onto read, I realize that there are several time travel stories out on this site. They are all very good! I am a big fan of them all! Great job! However this fictional work does not center on a woman coming from the future and going back to the time of Holmes. ((Shoot, it does!)). All right, let's try this, this fic does not center on a woman coming back to the early Holmes era from around the year 2000. ((Yes, if doesn't!)) :joyous smile:

Also: I sadly do not own Holmes, otherwise I would be leisurely sitting in the Doyle Estate right about now. Anyway, I don't own Holmes, Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Lastrade, or the Irregulars. Also Mary Russell belongs to Laurie R. King. Murray, I suppose belongs to Doyle, even though he is barely mentioned in the beginnings of "A Study in the Scarlet." However, I do own Hari and anyone else who isn't the faintest bit familiar!


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two  
  
The sitting room at 221 b Baker Street was full of smoke. Murray sat uncomfortably near a window glancing out onto the street below. It was almost eight in the morning and several hansoms were already on the street. Around the corner a group of newspaper boys had just split up. One set up and began shouting the morning's news in a loud manner. Murray smoked a thin cigar and watched the passerby. He and his manservant Hari had arrived at John Watson's residence little over five hours ago. With them had been an unconscious young woman they had pulled from the river. It was a miracle she had survived. Immediately upon their arrival, John had taken charge of the poor woman and along with Hari he had taken her to Holmes' bedroom.  
  
"Mrs. Hudson will be up any moment I suggest you prepare yourself," clipped Holmes. His words were sharp and loud.  
  
Holmes' words snapped Murray back to the present. This Holmes was an interesting chap with quirks and habits, he thought to himself. Then there came a knock at the door.  
  
"Come in, Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes cried from his chair near the fire. Murray stood and put out his cigar, standing straight, almost at attention  
  
In came Mrs. Hudson. Her hair had at one time been the darkest brown, now though it was graying and showing white near the back.  
  
"A visitor?" She asked politely. "Did he come last night?"  
  
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," John said, coming out of the room where the girl had been laid upon Holmes' bed. "With a few others as well," Hari followed the doctor, and upon seeing the landlady, bowed his head and motioned his hands in a respectful matter.  
  
"Oh, I see," she said, a bit flustered. She peered over the doctor's shoulder catching a glimpse of the girl's sleeping body. "Mr. Holmes, who is-" she began.  
  
"Ah, glad you noticed," said Holmes, standing up and facing her. Previously, he had sat in his chair puffing away at a foul-smelling pipe. "The lady needs some help, perhaps you could-" before he could finish Mrs. Hudson had brushed passed John and walked into Holmes' bedroom.  
  
"Oh goodness!" she exclaimed. The woman's strawberry blond hair was a tangled mass and her coloring pale. "Is she sick?"  
  
"Murray here pulled her from the river; he brought her here last night. I was not expecting Murray until this afternoon, but he thought she needed immediate assistance," Watson explained from the doorway.  
  
"Is she all right now?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "I wish I had been here!" Indeed she had, for no doubt the rules of propriety had been thrown out the window when it came to this young woman's treatment. The previous day, Mrs. Hudson had taken the day off to visit a close friend who had taken a sudden turn for the worse in her illness. She had been gone all night and had only arrived an hour ago.  
  
"Nothing a bit of rest, warm food and comfort won't cure," answered John.  
  
"In that case, I'll be up soon with your breakfasts," she murmured, taking a quick head count of all the visitors, and then left the flat.  
  
"Interesting woman," said Murray.  
  
"A very kind and generous one," said the doctor.  
  
"Indeed," said Holmes, not listening.  
  
Murray walked to the windows and looked out onto the street again. "John, how have you been?" he asked. Not a great deal of conversation had taken place between the two friends since Murray's arrival to the flat  
  
"Fine, fine, I don't think I have properly introduced Holmes," said the doctor rubbing an eye, he was tired. "Holmes, this is James Murray, he was my orderly in the war, saved my life," he said, nodding toward his friend.  
  
"A pleasure to meet you, sir, a pleasure indeed," said Holmes, being gracious from his chair. He had moved back toward his fireplace chair and was staring up at the ceiling.  
  
"Yes, a pleasure," echoed Murray. "And this is my friend, Hari," he motioned toward the small man, dressed in bright clothes. "He calls himself my servant, and indeed he acts like one, but in truth, he is just a good friend."  
  
Hari bowed to the two gentlemen in turn.  
  
"John tells me that you are a private consulting detective," began Murray.  
  
"THE private consulting detective, THE, not A, THE, I am THE only one in THE profession, for I have created it!" said Holmes turning away from the ceiling and looking at the former orderly.  
  
"Oh," said Murray somewhat taken back by the man's reaction.  
  
"So sorry," said Holmes wincing suddenly, "the tobacco is out," he said, as though that explained the entire matter.  
  
John motioned for Hari and Murray to take a couple chairs surrounding a table. Hari pulled out a chair for Murray and as his "friend" sat down, he in turn took a chair to the left of him.  
  
"So you detect," Murray stated.  
  
"Yes, he is contacted by the police somewhat regularly and gets clients from many states in society," said John.  
  
"What can you de-te-c-t about the woman?" asked Hari in broken English.  
  
"Good thinking, Hari!" cried Murray. "Can you deduce anything about her life, her personality? Even while she is unconscious?"  
  
"Undoubtedly," he paused dramatically. "Watson, why don't you try, you know my methods," said Holmes, taking a chair at the table as well. His pipe was full once more with the foul smelling tobacco.  
  
"Alright, let's see," thought aloud Watson, thinking back through the hours, "Well, her clothes suggest that she was preparing for bed, yet she had a heavy coat on, that coat by the way, must had slid off rather uncomfortably at one point, there are marks on her skin that show it was probably pulled out from under her by the current or something similar," he stopped and scratched his jaw, "She's married, does some sort of writing, wears glasses and-" before he could get farther, a knock at the door interrupted the conversation.  
  
"Ah, Mrs. Hudson!" cried out Holmes, leaping to the door and opening it. She looked at him, her brows somewhat elevated, and then sighed and realized he was hungry. Occasionally, he wouldn't eat for days and then suddenly, totally unexpectedly, he would bow down and have a large, large meal.  
  
"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, thank you, ah yes, all right now," she moved the tray that was filled with porridges and hot tea. She set the tray down and took a bowl of soup and spoon from the tray and walked to the detective's bedroom.  
  
"Here you are Murray, Holmes, Hari," said Watson, filling teacups and acting as host for the moment.  
  
"Water only," said Hari hurriedly before the tea could be pored into his cup, "Please."  
  
"Ah, all right," said Watson, searching about the room he found a pitcher of water that had been gotten early in the morning to nurse the woman. This pitcher he recalled had not been used.  
  
The tea (and water in one case) was poured and soon the men were about to restart the conversation over breakfast when they heard a scream.  
  
The quick scream brought all the men standing, save Holmes. "She must be awake," he said, stressing the word MUST in an annoyed fashion. Quiet murmurings were heard through the door; the men strained their ears while they sat back down to their tea.  
  
A few minutes later, Mrs. Hudson walked back out of the room, her face drawn into a smile. "She's awake."  
  
"What happened, what was her first reactions into consciousness?" asked Watson.  
  
"I don't know, she was mumbling in a foreign language, I don't know what it is, I think she," Mrs. Hudson began only to be interrupted by the detective.  
  
"Hebrew or Arabic," said Holmes.  
  
"Hebrew or Arabic?" Murray repeated stunned, "How on earth could you know- ?" he stopped short at Holmes' look of protest.  
  
"Simple, the ink marks on her hands indicates that she writes right to left, the only possibility being Hebrew," he said, raising an eyebrow  
  
"You saw her hands, but you barely saw her," stated Murray.  
  
"I saw enough," he said softly.  
  
"Indeed, and the Arabic?" Murray questioned.  
  
"Merely an idea," he answered.  
  
~~~~  
  
The darkness was overpowering. The need to see light, lights of any type, was extreme. The desire to see was overwhelming within me. My head was throbbing; my sides ached from some sort of sharp contact. The faint light that had been above me and then next to me had vanished quickly. With that came numbness and the feeling of desolateness.  
  
Seconds or days might have gone by in that dark place of blackness. Images in light gray appeared before me a few times. Images of both good and bad things. In my thoughts I cried out in despair, what was this place! Holmes! Where was I! I thought that this was a nightmare, or an illusion. Why then could I still think? It seemed that it lasted forever. I felt as though I was flying upwards yet falling down, down to the pit of life, at the same time. I told myself that this could not be happening. Yet the voices around me protested! And yet, beyond those voices were familiar voices. Voices that were so achingly familiar, yet non- recognizable.  
  
As my mind fell back and forwards at the same time and my eyes seemed to burst with despair at not seeing anything, I slowly realized that I was coming out of it. For, in the distance, there was a gigantic wall of lights! Reds, blues, greens and brilliant yellow and white! The colors screamed out at me to watch them. And I did. The colors got closer and closer and closer and closer and closer, until they were right upon me!  
  
It was then that I opened my eyes, saw the woman and screamed!  
  
Good Lord! It was Mrs. Hudson's double, her twin, her sister! The woman looked exactly like her, only, it was then that I realized it, younger  
  
"Calm down!" she said soothingly, casting aside a bowl of soup on a piece of furniture. She took her arms and held my shoulders. She was about to cry out for help when I began mumbling, babbling even, in Arabic. I was, I confess, going through a bit of shock at the moment. I don't remember even knowing what I was saying. It was instinct. In those long weeks in Jerusalem under the tutelage of Holmes, I had learned Arabic. I could speak it quite fluently. When I was distressed or enraged I would, at times, resort to a quick bit of foul language under a different tongue.  
  
Even in my sleep, if I had a terrible dream, not THE DREAM, but a dream, Holmes insisted that I would mumble out phrases in Arabic. I believed him.  
  
The poor woman, whoever she was, reacted a bit violently to my bout of hysterics. She held my shoulders strongly and began stroking my back in a comfortingly manner. I cried a bit, but soon stopped speaking in Arabic.  
  
"I'm going to go now, dear, but eat this soup," she said a few minutes later, handing me the soup and spoon. "Wait here, now." With that she left I had heard the mumblings of the familiar voices outside the door. I ate the soup slowly.  
  
The broth was cooling and the meat inside was cold. Even so, eating helped me regulate myself. I had reacted poorly, that I knew. That poor woman. Who was she, I wondered. As I drained the bowl, I glanced about the room. The bed I was in was a narrow double, obviously a man's. The room was disorganized with paper sneaking out from the drawers in a heavily piled desk. There was a mirror in the far back of the room, and it was then that I realized my hair was horrifically tangled.  
  
There were interesting articles of clothing spread in one corner. It looked as though they had been pushed aside hurriedly. As though the room had received an unexpected guest, I thought wearily. I pushed myself up more in the bed and found that I could see the clothes much better now.  
  
They varied to an astonishing rate. There was an old fashioned cabbies' uniform, complete with company hat and gloves. Next to those though, were the grab of a fisherman, laborer, policeman, (a constable, I noted) a tuxedo (and top hat), a parlor maid (to my surprise), and several lumps were beneath these items. I assumed these bumps to be shoes  
  
Warily looking about the room, I got up. The clothes interested me and I wished to see the shoes that lay beneath. Getting up, I noted that bruises were forming at my sides. Something had happened, then; they (the bruises) were taking on the form of a thin handle and large flat end. A cane? But what type? Brushing the thought aside I made my way to the pile of clothing.  
  
I found, underneath it all, several pairs of shoes. Just as I had thought, the shoes were all of different sizes and values.  
  
Then, suddenly, a knock at the door. Quickly, I made my way back to the bed and sat upon it. "Come in," I said. It was the woman again.  
  
"Hello, my dear, are you feeling better?" she asked.  
  
"Much, thank you, and I am so sorry about before," I said. I said this quickly, saying the last part in reference toward the outbreak of Arabic.  
  
"Quite all right, dear," she said. "I'm Mrs. Hudson, and there are some-" she stopped at my expression.  
  
"M-Martha Hudson?" I stuttered.  
  
"Why, yes. Do I know you?" she asked quizzically.  
  
"Ummm, I," I froze. Oh this was, this was, I thought, searching for the right term, surreal. I got up from the bed again, and this time walked to a window. I looked out. The window, I knew would not face the main street but rather it would give me a good view of the skyline. And as I looked out the window, I knew where and when I was. "Leave me for a moment," I said shortly, knowing she would go out into the sitting room  
  
"I'll be right back," she said, looking at me worriedly.  
  
I felt my breath seize up in my chest and slowly sat down in a near chair. The cloths, the room, the newspaper articles, the view, Mrs. Hudson, it could only mean one thing. I was at 221 b Baker Street. But not, as I would expect, in 1923!  
  
I felt my face flush and took many deep breaths. Perhaps it was the fact that I had read that novel by Wells, that time travel or the idea of moving through time came to me quickly. The book, I had thought when I had finished it and set it aside, was fantasy and totally barbarically written. But now, as I put my hands to the bottom of the chair, I knew that some of it was not as fantastical as it seemed.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Mrs. Hudson, to our surprise, came out of the room quickly, upon her second entrance.  
  
"What is it?" Watson asked, concerned. Mrs. Hudson's face was one of worry.  
  
"She asked me to leave, she turned pale as a ghost and asked me to leave," she said.  
  
"Tell me exactly what happened," requested Holmes suddenly, his interest piqued.  
  
"Well, she had finished her soup and was sitting up. I told her my name and she seemed surprised. Oh, she seemed surprised to see me when she first awoke as well, but you'd be surprised to see anyone after what she's been through," she stopped and continued with Holmes' nod. "She knew my first name somehow, almost as she knew me, but I have never seen her before, I know it, and then she walked to your window and looked out. She seemed to be surprised. Then she told me to leave her alone for a moment."  
  
"Interesting," Murray said, Hari nodded slowly.  
  
"Very. Is that all Mrs. Hudson," Watson asked.  
  
"Yes, Doctor."  
  
"Well, perhaps you and I should go in, I need to question her about those bruises and how she ended up in the river," Watson said, standing up.  
  
"If it is all right with you, John, I must check in with the hotel," said Murray, "I hate to leave, seeing as I have brought her to you, but I am supposed to met someone in an hour and-"  
  
"Say no more," replied Watson, interrupting his former orderly.   
  
Murray spoke rapidly and softly to Hari, and then proclaimed; "Hari is staying here, so that he can help and keep me informed with the situation. I feel responsible for this intrusion," Murray said.  
  
"All right, if that is agreeable by everyone," Watson said. Mrs. Hudson kept glancing at the young woman's door. Holmes nodded stiffly. With that, Murray quickly left.  
  
Watson looked about to say something, but then glanced at Hari and stopped. Hari stepped back and sat on the floor looking at the closed door of the detective's bedroom.  
  
"Well, why don't you bring the woman out here," said Holmes, he was irritated with the trouble this woman had caused.  
  
"After the examination Holmes, after the examination," said Watson.  
  
"Of course," Holmes said sarcastically. With that he sat on the ground next to Hari and began speaking to him in Hari's native tongue.  
  
Mrs. Hudson and Dr. Watson went back to the young woman's room.  
  
"Ah, you are awake," said Watson.  
  
"Yes," the woman said.  
  
"What is your name?" asked Mrs. Hudson.  
  
"Mary Russell," the woman said carefully.  
  
"I see," Watson commented. "Do you mind, Mrs. Russell if I examine you further, I noted a pair of bruises earlier, but was concerned about various other health worries at that time," he said quickly.  
  
"Of course, you noted I was married," she said, more to herself then to the two others.  
  
"Yes," he answered.  
  
The examination went quickly and Mrs. Hudson found an article of clothing, the parlor maid's dress, and handed it to Mrs. Russell.  
  
The two left the room to Mrs. Russell, so she could change. Moments later, she opened the door and her eyes met Holmes'.  
  
~~~~~  
  
Perhaps it was not a time travel, I thought to myself. I stood up after Mrs. Martha Hudson left the room and attempted to come to grips with the situation. The familiar voices had been Mrs. Hudson and no doubt, my future husband and Dr. Watson. I strode over to the desk and pulled out some newspaper clippings. The dates varied between 1878 and 1887. The newest ones were from early February 1887. 1887! That was, doing some quick math, thirty-six years in the past!  
  
I traveled back, back in time to 1887! I wasn't even born yet, I realized. Quickly gathering up my thoughts, I turned my attention to the present, even though it was the past, I thought. I must not say anything! Nothing! I can't do anything! If I do anything, this will affect the future. There was no future yet, and it could not be tampered with! No cars! I realized with chagrin. A lot of things would be different, notably my dear husband.  
  
No! He was not my husband. This man was not and is not the man I had or rather have come to love. The tenses, I knew, would become headache starters. I must act normal, or normally until I can come to grips! I must be normal, not react, try not to know.  
  
This would be much easier, I thought, if I had not read Uncle John's stories!  
  
It was with careful thought that I greeted Uncle John and Mrs. Hudson when they came into my room. I was surprised when Uncle John noted my wedding ring. I introduced myself as Mary Russell, Mrs. Russell, apparently, to them. Uncle John of course was younger, his mustache not gray but light brown. The cheerful wrinkles were, I noted, not there yet.  
  
I was soon clothed in a parlor maid's pale gray dress. Not unbecoming, I thought, yet not becoming at the same time.  
  
The time soon came, when I walked out of the bedroom, Holmes' I knew, judging by the contents, and my eyes met Holmes'.  
  
I must confess, he was handsome, at least in my eyes. His thinning hair was now lush and dark and his hooded eyes were not quite as hooded. His eyes, those grey, all-seeing eyes were the same though. I studied him and he studied me. I wondered what he would make of me. It was with some surprise though when he greeted me in the way he did.  
  
"Marhaba sitt," he said softly, looking directly at me. Marhaba was the Arabic word for welcome. Sitt, was the Arabic word for lady.  
  
I realized that he had figured out I spoke Arabic and I glanced down at my hands. Ah yes, how bittersweet this was. He had noted that the ink on my hands cold only have come from writing right to left, thus the Hebrew. He then presumed that I spoke Arabic as well. He had deduced that I wrote Hebrew the first day that I met him, both now and in 1915. With a jolt, I noted that 1915 was in twenty-eight years.  
  
"Salaam alikum effendi," I said, an Arabic phrase of greeting and effendi, being an honorary address to a male.  
  
"Alikum es-salaam," he replied.  
  
It was then that we both noted Mrs. Hudson and Uncle John's astounded looks.  
  
"Maalesh," I said under my breath, Holmes heard and chuckled.  
  
"Welcome, Mary Russell," he said.  
  
"Hello, Mr. Holmes," I answered.  
  
Author's Note: Thanks a bundle to my BETA READER: MARCH HARE!!!! ::grins:: I am really thankful to your help in the vast world of grammar!!! To the readers, I must confess that this chapter originally stopped where she screamed, but I thought it much better to continue on! I hope you all enjoyed, review with suggestions, or email me at: scorpiodragon@mychi.com! 


	3. Chapter Three

Previous Chapter Continued:  
  
"Salaam alikum effendi," I said, an Arabic phrase of greeting and effendi, being an honorary address to a male. "Alikum es-salaam," he replied.  
  
It was then that we both noted Mrs. Hudson and Uncle John's astounded looks.  
  
"Maalesh," I said under my breath, Holmes heard and chuckled.  
  
"Welcome, Mary Russell," he said.  
  
"Hello, Mr. Holmes," I answered.  
  
Chapter Three  
  
Uncle John, though at this age he looked more like a cousin, gestured me over to a comforting looking chair.  
  
"Please, sit here, Mrs. Russell," he said, motioning to said chair.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"So tell us Mary Russell, what brought you to the river at night, in the state you were in?" questioned Holmes. He in turn sat down in a chair directly across from mine. I had no doubt that his interest must be flared. A small Indian or south Asian looking man had stood from the floor when I had first entered the room. At my being seated, he stood near the far wall, in front of the flat's entrance.  
  
Holmes' words, "river at night" registered quickly. I had obviously been found in a river. Was that the way time travel worked, I wondered? What would be a good answer? Thinking quickly, I answered simply, "I don't know."  
  
"You don't know?" spattered Holmes repeating my words in a sadistic way.  
  
"Yes, that's what I said."  
  
"What do you last recall, Mrs. Russell?" Uncle John asked, or should I say simply Watson?  
  
"I, I, I," I paused, this could be difficult. "I don't know, I don't remember, everything is difficult to remember." I shuddered theatrically, hoping that Holmes would buy the performance.  
  
"Indeed?" Holmes said softly. He walked to a table and asked, "Would you like some tea?" Watson's lip jolted as though he was about to say something, then didn't.  
  
"Very well," I said. Once that was taken care of, we were all seated once again, save the Indian looking man.  
  
"Can you tell me what happened, Mr. Holmes?" I asked suddenly, feeling a giddy temptation creeping through into my thoughts.  
  
"Ah, you know my profession," he stated. His lips moved rapidly.  
  
"Yes, I know something about it, due to the various newspaper articles," I said, recalling that the articles in his room had been about cases that he had actually been mentioned in, as well as, in most cases, not mentioned.  
  
"Well, as you claim," he paused, watching my reaction and then getting none, "That you do not know, then I will try," he said. He studied me carefully and then proceeded to say, "You are from America, though have not been there within the past few years."  
  
"You are correct, Mr. Holmes," I said, trying my best to remain calm. This was sounding just like one of the romanticized versions of Uncle John's writings.  
  
"Yes, yes, you are originally from the North American continent. You now, however, live in the country." He paused again and then continued. "You write and read Hebrew, are very observant and study something, perhaps physiology or theology."  
  
"Theology? Physiology? Holmes, are you certain, clearly Mrs. Russell is a lady," interrupted Watson. Ah, the man of the late 19th century. I sighed inwardly, clearly no thought that I could think and act. Though I had thought Uncle John to be a bit above that sort of thing, perhaps it was merely the fields of study, I reasoned.  
  
"Quite certain," Holmes stated firmly. "And you are very observant and intelligent, though why you were attempting to hide it by portraying a person of normal intelligence, even while being able to converse in Arabic, is somewhat beyond me at the moment."  
  
"I see," I said, taking a slow sip from my tea.  
  
"I think you do," he replied.  
  
"So you do not know how I came to be in the river?" I asked.  
  
"No, but if you wish I can find out," he stated.  
  
"Yes, I think that would be the best course," I said, thinking about the situation. What would he discover? Some sort of device that brought me from the future? What would his reaction be if he discovered the fact that I was from the future, let alone his future wife?  
  
"Of course," he said.  
  
"Where do you live?" asked Watson, "So that we may reach you?"  
  
"I live," I paused, thinking that 'Sussex' might not be the best answer, "As you said in the country; however, I am staying at a hotel right now, the Winters Hotel, on Post Cross." The hotel had been one that I had read about somewhere in the papers during the my time involved with the Margery Childe incident. The hotel had been burned to the ground mysteriously in 1907. However, right now it was still up and open and I had read that it was supposedly one of the best in Europe.  
  
"Ah yes," said Watson, "Very nice, old hotel." An understatement, the hotel was elegant, so I read, and undoubtedly expensive. As for old, it had been built nearly seventy years ago.  
  
"Excellent. Mary Russell, Mrs. Russell, I will look into this matter for you," started Holmes.  
  
I stood up quickly and interrupted him, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson and thank Mrs. Hudson as well when she returns." I had noted her leaving the building a few minutes ago through one of the front windows.  
  
"Of course," replied Watson. "We will look into this matter Mrs. Russell."  
  
"Oh and Mr. Holmes, did either of you perhaps locate a pair of glasses, I can't really see well from a distance without them." I said shortly.  
  
"Of course, here you are," Watson handed me my glasses, one of the rims was bent a bit, but the glass was thankfully intact.  
  
"Oh, Mrs. Russell," said Holmes as the flat door was opened as I was about to leave, "Is your husband staying in London as well?"  
  
"Yes, Mr. Holmes, he is."  
  
~~~~~  
  
What possessed me to say that? Now I could imagine Holmes, in his prime, dashing across London searching for a Mr. Russell and searching out what had brought me to the river at night. He would not find a husband by the name of Mr. Russell. No indeed, he would not find a husband at all unless he went to the future to greet himself.  
  
As I did not have any money with me, and I was wearing a parlor maid's garb I decided against fetching a hansom, and instead walked the twenty, long blocks to the hotel. Thankfully, Watson had leant me a strong coat to protect myself from the wind and temperature of February. They had not, I noted, offered to get me a cab, which I assumed this meant Holmes meant to follow me to the hotel.  
As I walked upon the narrow sidewalks that surrounded the tall buildings of my husband's youth and life I saw several people. Beggars and street urchins were already underfoot asking for a dime every step of the first nine blocks. The bitter wind was still present, though the coat helped t great extent.  
Then as I walked out of one part of London and entered another, I was greeted with the site of dozens of newspaper boys in a line, all representing different papers and attempting to get people to buy their papers. As I walked by I noted a headline stating "Another Handless Murder". My curiosity, as you no doubt could imagine was stirred. A handless murder? The urge to buy the paper was strong, however I resisted, seeing as I had no money.  
The following blocks were a bundle of shopkeepers and laborers and I felt a pain in my gut at the difference in times. Would I ever return to Sussex and my Holmes? I wondered. The hotel soon came into view. It's tall structure was spellbinding, even for this date. It couldn't have been more than three stories yet it carried a presence that was undeniable.  
As I entered the building a great heat wave hit me, it was much warmer in here. Around the lobby several society ladies were having a late breakfast, I noted the lobby also lead the way the hotel's restaurant. This could be useful. As I walked to the main desk I formed my plan.  
There, I decided I would change one of the signed names in the registration book to Mr. and Mrs. Russell.as I glanced at the book I looked for the perfect name, ah! At last! Here was at least one thing that I was in control of, Mr. and Mrs. James Lowell!  
  
However, things were not that simple. A manager of some sort at the hotel came up.  
  
"Excuse me, Madame," he began, looking down at my outfit of a maid. "Are you checking in?"  
  
"Yes, I am," I said hastily, thinking of a plan. Yes, it was the only way. He handed me a pen and an inkbottle, I made up my mind then. Scratching quickly with the pen, I wrote out a particular name, one that Holmes would find, and I then, as the manager turned his head to talk to a boy about another guest's baggage, turned the "L" in Lowell to an "R", which was not too difficult and then I outlined the "O" a bit more so to make it appear a "U" then the "W" was made to a pair of "Ss" and finally, instead of Lowell you had Russell.  
  
Mr. and Mrs. Lowell, I noted were not due to check out for another two days, Thursday. I had only until then to think more carefully about this situation.  
  
~~~~  
  
Back to Baker Street: Watson's POV  
  
"Well Holmes," I said, "A lot has happened."  
  
"Indeed, we shall talk a few moments then proceed to begin our investigation." Holmes stated, putting down his pipe, and tipping the ashes into his leftover porridge.  
  
"What think you of woman?" asked Hari, who had moved to sit back at the table.  
  
"A very pretty young woman," I said.  
  
"It seems you say that a great deal about many of the female clients," Holmes commented.  
  
"Now, Holmes," I protested.  
  
"It's all right, old fellow, calm down," he said, standing and stretching.  
  
"Well what do you think of the woman, Hari?" I asked the smaller man.  
  
"Diff-er-ent, wise," he said slowly.  
  
"Yes, she is different, isn't she," Holmes murmured.  
  
I glanced over at him, his eyes half closed in deep thought. "Holmes, what do you plan to do?" I asked. "Go to the river, ask questions, the hotel," I suggested.  
  
"We shall follow her, when she leaves the hotel. Now, as she had no money with her, and coincidently, I did not bring that up,-" Holmes began, only to be interrupted by myself.  
  
"No money! That poor woman, I can't believe I didn't think-" I started.  
  
"Nonsense, if she is who she states she is, then she surely has plenty of money," Holmes said, "And I deliberately did not bring that subject up, due to the fact that you would most likely give her some, and she could then hire a cab somewhere, versus actually walking to the hotel."  
  
"Oh, I see," I said. "Hari, we shall be going out, do you wish to stay here or go back to Murray's hotel?"  
  
"I stay here, case some-one come," he stated.  
  
"All right, fine, just don't mess with the experiments," Holmes said hurriedly. He then, grabbed his coat and motioned to me to leave.  
  
"We'll be back," I said, not saying "soon" due to the fact that Holmes' quests or cases were not always "soon" over.  
  
Once outside, I asked Holmes, "What do you think of Hari?"  
  
"Most interesting chap."  
  
"That's right, you talked to him, what did he say?"  
  
"Many things, mainly why he is with Murray."  
  
"And why is that?"  
  
"Murray saved his life."  
  
"Ah, that would explain the companionship of the two, and Hari's supposed acting like a servant," I stated.  
  
"Somewhat, but do hurry along, this case may prove to be interesting," Holmes said. Little did he know just how interesting it may prove to be.  
  
Back to Russell:  
  
I admit that writing that name had not been the smartest thing for me to do. I should have simply wrote Susan Smith or something of that sort, otherwise Holmes would grow suspicious, know that I knew more than I should. He would then track me down. I should have waited until I did something that drastic, I should have sat alone for a day and pondered what I should do! This was a very dangerous situation--- that I knew. Anything I did would affect the future!  
  
By writing that name down I changed Dr. Watson's account of the case "The Greek Interpreter". Indeed, when that case took place, Watson had never even known of Mycroft! Now though, I realized, my very presence in his life, slight though it was, was changing things already.  
  
I had two days till Thursday; two days till Holmes would look outside the hotel. I knew that his interest was aroused. I could tell it in the slight glint in his eyes. Where to go? I asked myself. Not the hotel, I couldn't pay for it, I needed someplace heated, comforting, small, easily located by myself and not others---of course one of Holmes' boltholes.  
  
I knew of at least two. One in a large building home to several stores and another near where Margery Childe's Temple of God once stood. It was still there in 1923, I had no idea what it was today. Deciding that the shopping area was my best bet, and only option within a mile, I walked from the hotel, after the manager gave me a key and an oily smile.  
  
The bolthole, I thought, would be the perfect place. Small, cramped, but it might be right. My only fears were that I would go mad from spending so much time in the hole or be discovered and taken to a late 19th century police station!  
  
It was perhaps forty minutes by the time I discovered the shopping center, and my worries almost escalated. The shopping area was completely different! Well, what did you expect? Things to stay the same for thirty-six years? I asked myself. The area was the same only the building had not yet been built.  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
Holmes' POV  
  
"She studies Theology!" said Watson, after a brief lapse of silence.  
  
"Yes, she told us that," I replied.  
  
"Isn't that odd?" he stated.  
  
"Indeed, especially for a woman," I noted. This woman was most peculiar. Never in all my life had I encountered one similar.  
  
"What do you make of it, Holmes?" Watson asked.  
  
"What do I make of what?" I snapped, I was trying to think! This woman, there was something about her, something that didn't make sense.  
  
"I," he paused, caught off guard by my reaction, but then continued. "The woman, there is something about her, isn't there, something that bothers you?" He had read my thoughts, or at least was thinking similar ones.  
  
"Perhaps, but there is something amiss. The bruises, they were not caused by oars from a ship or boat, as I first believed. I had talked with Hari about that as well, He claimed that the oars were used near the shoulders and the feet, due to the position of the body when they found her," I said carefully.  
  
"So you mean the bruises were there before she came to the river?" Watson asked.  
  
"Yes, I think so, something happened, and I believe that she does not know," I said.  
  
"Shock? Could she be blocking events from her memory?"  
  
"Possibly that could explain some things."  
  
"What do you suppose the bruises came from?"  
  
"Describe them, Watson, remember that I did not see the bruises."  
  
"Ah, they were each identical, there was a long thin area, but then this rounded off to a flat top."  
  
"Similar then, to a cane, perhaps?" I suggested.  
  
"Yes, like a cane. Wait, Holmes, that would mean---"  
  
"Yes, that she was beaten, twice." I said.  
  
"For a woman of that class, her husband, perhaps?"  
  
"Possibly. Here we are, the hotel." Indeed, we had arrived at the hotel. "Let's take a look at the registration book."  
  
"Manager!" Watson called over, "We need to take a quick look at this registration book."  
  
"And who are you to look through it?" he asked.  
  
"Dr. Watson, and Sherlock Holmes," Watson said, stressing my name.  
  
"Sherlock, who, you mean that detective fellow?"  
  
"Yes, the detective fellow, now if you will please let us take a brief look," I began.  
  
"I don't know," he began.  
  
"Watson," I said, lifting an eyebrow. Watson took out a few coins and handed it to the man.  
  
"I still don't know," the man persisted.  
  
"Very well, just give him a five pound note," Watson did so and soon we were looking over the book.  
  
"Only one entry today Holmes, I can't seem to read that writing," he said.  
  
"Here, here let me see," I glanced at the words and laughed. A sharp laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "Watson, the woman is on to us," I said, look what she has written:  
  
MRS. MYCROFT HOLMES  
  
"Mycroft?" Watson asked. "I don't understand, who is this Mycroft?"  
  
"My brother." My mind was in inner turmoil. This woman knew of my brother! She knew that we would follow her! Did she know of Mycroft's possession? Did she even know Mycroft?  
  
"Holmes, you never told me that you have a brother!"  
  
"I do."  
  
"So she is your sister in-law?" Watson said, amazed.  
  
"Nonsense, Mycroft is a bachelor to the bone, and if he married," I Chuckled a bit, "then it would be more astonishing then if I were to marry." However, a small thought entered my mind. What if she worked with the government? What if, this was a cover, and this was her clue to signal me out of following her?  
  
"So, this woman," Watson said, getting over the shock of not knowing, "Knew about your brother, knew his name and wrote herself down as having been married to him?"  
  
"Yes, it doesn't make much sense. See here, she has changed the name," he paused glancing more closely. "Lowell to Russell, obviously she is playing a tricky game. We shall have to be careful, Watson, very careful. This woman, whatever she intends to do, was telling us the truth to some extent, but is clever. Perhaps maybe more than clever."  
  
"What do we do now Holmes?" Watson asked.  
  
"Would like to meet my brother?"  
  
Author's note: Thanks a bunch to March Hare for beta reading!!! Sorry for the slight delay in the posting! Thanks to all the reviewers! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!!! 


	4. Chapter Four

Twisting Time  
  
Chapter Four  
  
Note to the reader: The dates are carefully researched, as best they can,  
  
and I ask that you read over things carefully if you think you have found a  
  
mistake. Watson's note at the is written after the case is finished.  
  
February 1887  
  
London, England  
  
Russell's POV:  
  
The building was not there. Which meant, of course, that Holmes' bolthole  
  
would not be there. Sighing in frustration, I held my arms close, the wind  
  
still cold. Passerby looked at me once or twice, but the majority, I am  
  
happy to claim, ignored me. I felt, as no doubt the reader can deduce, like  
  
a fool.  
  
Not only had I no place to go, but also I had sent the hound and doctor  
  
upon my heels by leaving that fool of a name at the hotel! Mrs. Mycroft  
  
indeed! Holmes' first move, I knew would be to rush to Mycroft's club.  
  
Unless I was mistake, which I doubted, Uncle John had not yet met up with  
  
the elder Holmes brother. He should have, I thought, met up with him on the  
  
case titled "The Greek Interpreter" which was not "due to happen" until  
  
1888. This should prove interesting indeed.  
  
Turning, I moved away from the area, which would one day hold the home of  
  
one of Holmes' boltholes. What to do now? I glanced about, straining my  
  
mind of Victorian London, and unfortunately, finding nothing of worthwhile.  
  
Walking a ways absentmindedly, I noted a change. The clouds above suddenly  
  
drew together, forming a dense shadow around me. I turned back, hoping to  
  
catch a glimpse of the reactions of the passersby or a constable, or  
  
someone, but there was no one there. Straining my eyes back to the sky, the  
  
clouds had blocked the sunlight and the temperature seemed to drop a  
  
further five decrees and the wind picked up.  
  
No one was around, and then suddenly everything was black! I was alone, in  
  
the darkened world. I was, I thought, experiencing the same symptoms of  
  
events that I had had to reach 1887. I was traveling through time, again.  
  
***  
  
April 1888  
  
London, England  
  
Dr. John H. Watson's POV:  
  
To Sherlock Holmes she is always THE WOMAN. I have seldom heard him mention  
  
her by any other name. Mrs. Mary Russell was her name. She had fooled him,  
  
less than a year ago, during the strange case, which I am only now  
  
mentioning due to the present case involving another woman. Two women in  
  
two years have beaten the great detective in several cases. The case that I  
  
mentioned which occurred one year ago was strange due to the lack of  
  
conceivable evidence and data. Holmes was frustrated a great deal after her  
  
disappearance. His brother Mycroft, whom I met briefly during the case,  
  
offered no suggestions or any possible connections. Holmes resorted to  
  
pacing his dark study for hours on end, eyes shut tight in concentration.  
  
He continued in such away of not eating or even, at one point, not smoking  
  
in avid frustration at the case. Eventually another case turned up, which,  
  
unfortunately for you dear reader, I am not, allowed divulging information  
  
due to government security.  
  
The case upon which we encountered the second woman was interestingly  
  
enough, though not nearly half as interesting as it could have been  
  
regarding Holmes and Irene Alder. However many other interesting things  
  
occurred which prevented the meeting of these two individuals. Not in the  
  
least was the return of Mrs. Mary Russell.  
  
This is, my dear reader, that very interesting case.  
  
I must put here now a note to myself. This story is not to be published for  
  
some time. Now, I have not decided upon a finale date, but as of now, mid  
  
April of the year 1888, this is not to be published. Another note I must  
  
include here, for future-editing purposes is, to exclude direct mention of  
  
the probability of Time Travel. Time Travel, I must confess was a much  
  
spoken topic by Holmes, myself and Mrs. Mary Russell during the case.  
  
***  
  
March 1888  
  
London, England  
  
Russell's POV:  
  
The darkness was not as overwhelming as it had been the first time. In  
  
fact, it only seemed to last a brief moment while the other time, the  
  
blackness and silence and array of colors could have lasted forever.  
  
There was only a brief glimpse of a distant prism of colors before I was in  
  
London once more. No snow lay on the ground. I glanced about, the sky was a  
  
tad overcast, and the wind temperature was much lower and calmer. Traveling  
  
through time should come with an answer book, or at least a handbook!  
  
I must here remind the reader that, I Mary Russell Holmes was indeed a theology student as well as a chemistry student. The idea of time travel had reached my ears during a discussion or two during a meeting with fellow students. I had even at one point argued against the probability of such a thing. However at present I was not experiencing the feeling, which was described to be the feeling of time travel-though how they would know I have no idea. I was overly spectacular of such a thing occurring I admit, when this entire affair began, but at the present it seemed the best answer to an array of questions.  
  
It was not February, I thought; no, the ground and the sky and the clothing  
  
might account for it not being that month. But what really told me that it  
  
was not February was the shouting of newspaper boys proclaiming the date  
  
mixed up with some crime. Apparently, Sherlock Holmes had solved another  
  
crime. This one, about two months ago was still in the news, surprising.  
  
Perhaps the information had only just now reached the papers.  
  
I was still clad in the maid's attire taken from my future husband's  
  
lodgings over a year ago. In my mind of course, it had only been a couple  
  
of hours at the most. I was back near where I had left, moments before, and now,  
  
Holmes' bolthole building was present!  
  
It was awfully convenient and strange that in the passing of a year I ended up exactly, or near enough, where I had left. My mind at that point began to subconsciously think up or try to think up passages of the Bible. No solution came. Whatever was happening seemed to have me bent on entering the bolthole, or at least so I thought. What was the purpose of my being here? Were there fates involved? Was I even time traveling? Was there such a thing as time traveling? Why here-why now?  
  
Inhaling deeply, and ignoring several small children who ran about, I made my way to the front of the building. It was then that I felt a sharp pain in my head. A headache, I thought sarcastically, wonderful!  
  
Climbing up the stairs of the department store, which was large and  
  
bustling with activity, I walked down the passages until I came across the  
  
entrance. Carefully, so as not to be observed, I climbed in slowly.  
  
The room was sparse only the cramped couch and dresser stood there. There  
  
was no line of worn rug upon the floor where he had, or would, pace for  
  
hours on end. There was make up and disguise material though limited in  
  
numbers and quantity. The room, in short was unused for the vast majority.  
  
Sitting down, I decided, that the couch may suit me well enough for a bit of rest. The banging hammers in my ears agreed with me and I rested myself down for a quick nap. Time traveling, or whatever was taking place seemed to have a bad effect in regards toward headaches!  
  
***  
  
Watson's POV:  
  
"Holmes, whatever is the matter?" I asked.  
  
"Nothing, nothing, it just does not seem to fit in with data!"  
  
"What? What doesn't seem to work?"  
  
"The King of Bohemia!"  
  
"What about him? He told us his case last night!"  
  
"True, true something just seems odd about it. I don't like it!"  
  
"Experiencing a premonition, Holmes?" I asked jokingly. His attitude toward  
  
the supernatural and anything of the sort had been loudly expressed one  
  
point when I had last seen met with him.  
  
"Very funny Watson," Holmes said dryly. I am sorry to say there was no  
  
humor in his voice.  
  
"Come now, old boy, let's hear it," I said, trying to get the truth out of  
  
him.  
  
"Well, ever since. . . that case-" He stopped. I knew at once he was  
  
talking about the Mrs. Russell case, which he had, in his own words, failed  
  
miserably at.  
  
I stood silent, allowing him to continue.  
  
"I think something is going to happen," he said softly. "You know I don't  
  
hold a candle to that mishmash, but I think- I know," he paused, "That  
  
something is going to happen."  
  
"I see," I replied. I turned away from him to glance out the window,  
  
noting nothing extraordinary. His feelings on Mrs. Mary Russell were shrouded in secrecy. As I looked back to the previous year I remember feeling a brief jolt of shock that Holmes would offer tea and then pour it. He had never done that with any other client or person in my presence, I had always done the deed. I remember starting to say "What are doing!" and then I stopped. I had always thought from that moment that Holmes held some feeling of warmth for that woman. What was now bringing out these possible feelings?  
  
My musings were interrupted by Holmes when, "Now then, I will need to go out Watson, for a bit I need to do some primary investigating," he stood and stretched.  
  
With that he left the room and me to the still silence of the morning.  
  
***  
  
Holmes' POV:  
  
What was needed in the case of Irene Adler was data, data, data. Women are  
  
naturally secretive, and they are likely to do their own searching. The  
  
present case required me to go in disguise. A common, out-of-work laborer,  
  
I should think. A groomer, perhaps. The disguise would require a beard,  
  
change of clothes, a change of dialect, I relished the thoughts!  
  
A stop at a bolthole was needed. And one preferably near the Aldler home,  
  
and one that would have a crowded surrounding. Of course, I thought of only  
  
one.  
  
Making my way briskly down the street, I noted several newspaper lads  
  
screaming out my name. A previous case, no doubt, printed from Watson's  
  
writings of a case of some sort. From the vastly exaggerated headlines I  
  
deduced the "case" to be that of "The Valley of Fear", no doubt secret  
  
handshakes and romantic driddle was added from Watson's overly dramatic  
  
touch.  
  
Ah! There, the building of destination. The home of my newest bolthole. Not  
  
yet used a great deal, but I foresaw long hours in that space. Climbing the  
  
steps, I noted the shoppers and urchins. Good. Many people was a good  
  
thing, no one would notice a finely dressed man being replaced by a lower  
  
class groomer.  
  
Walking a brief ways I made it to the entrance. Carefully watching about me  
  
I quickly opened the hidden entrance and made my way inside. The door had  
  
been opened recently, perhaps just this morning, or at the latest, last  
  
night. How anyone could have found such a spot, as this was unnerving. This was the first time that someone had broken into a bolthole of mine! I was, as I stated a tad unnerved. There was no evidence supporting a violent entry. Someone had known exactly where to find it and how to open the door. Almost as if that person had been there before.  
  
Ducking my head a bit from a wooden beam, I came to where the dresser and  
  
couch were.  
  
Suddenly I had the strangest feeling and then I saw, on the couch was one strikingly familiar woman.  
  
I confess that it took the briefest of moments to gather my wits and recall  
  
that this was Mrs. Mary Russell, alias, Mrs. Lowell, alias, Mrs. Mycroft.  
  
The woman moved a bit in sleep; she looked exhausted. And yet, the dress,  
  
the dress was mine. The maid's disguise that had been lent to the woman!  
  
She still wore it! In fact, she looked very much the same as she had over a  
  
year ago! Her coat had been discarded on the floor.  
  
I felt my face flush a tad in color.  
  
Her arm moved a bit and her nose twitched. She was awakening, I thought,  
  
from the briefest of naps. Her eyes opened slowly------  
  
To be continued..  
  
Author's Note: Thanks to March Hare again for beta reading! ::grins::  
  
What do YOU think? Review!!!! ((smiles)) 


	5. Chapter Five

Twisting Time Chapter Five  
  
March 1888 London, England Russell's POV  
  
I was dreaming.  
  
I was walking along reading a book when I had run into the great detective. My mind smiled at the found memory of meeting my future husband. We scolded each other a few moments, as we had done when we first meet. Suddenly the dream changed. The memory was not the same anymore. The sky above darkened and the wind temperature dropped. The shimmering sun disappeared behind large clouds. In the dream, Holmes and myself continued talking, not noticing the change around us. Then, I pulled off my cap to release my strawberry blond hair, showing the great detective something he had not foreseen. At that moment, the clouds tucked back to where they had been previously and the sun shone bright again.  
  
I jolted awake, seeing two gray eyes starring back at me.  
  
***  
  
"What-!" I cried out shortly, recognizing Holmes. I bolted straight up, bruising my shoulder a bit against the hard edge of the coach.  
  
Holmes had appeared startled when I first awoke, but he now seemed at ease in the situation. Backing away a few steps he leaned against the wall.  
  
"Mrs. Russell, or should I say Mrs. Lowell or should I say Mrs. Mycroft?" he began. I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach. I had no idea how long it had been since he had last seen me. As long as it takes to install a bolthole, my mind fed back to me warily. My head suddenly began to ache slightly and my eyes began to grow dry.  
  
"Mr. Holmes," I replied, leaning against the coach slightly, removing a few strands of hair from my face. "So good to see you."  
  
"Indeed? It has been a while has it not?" he said, probing for information. I knew that he immediately recognized the maid's attire he had lent me previously.  
  
"Yes it has," I spoke shortly, not divulging anything, as I knew nothing. My head continued to pound softly.  
  
"Care to explain yourself?" he asked.  
  
"I have nothing to explain!" I protested quickly without thinking.  
  
"No? Then why pray tell are you here, on my property of all places, in my clothing?!" he asked, his voice raising.  
  
I thought briefly then answered. "Here? Your property? Does the department store or building management know of this?" I asked, though I was treading into unused path. I had never asked nor never known how Holmes had gotten his boltholes. Now appeared to be the time to find out.  
  
He blinked once, and then continued, ignoring my counteraction. "Very well, as to my clothes?"  
  
"If you were to take that matter up with the police, I'm sure Scotland Yard would find it very amusing. Especially Lestrade?"  
  
At this he flushed slightly and ran his hand through his hair unconsciously. "Mrs. Russell, I must know, how, -" he stopped starring down upon the floor. "How is it possible for you to have so eluded me and now appear here, just as you were before?"  
  
"Many things are possible Holmes," I said, realizing afterward I had slipped to calling him Holmes, instead of the formal title I should have. He noted this right away.  
  
Sensing my vulnerability in the situation, or perhaps taking a leap of faith-something which I doubted knowing Holmes, he came from his point near the wall and sat beside me on the coach.  
  
"After you left, after deliberately taking two false identities, perhaps three as I have a notion that Mrs. Russell is close to being your real name..."at this he trailed off only to begin anew. "Hari, that would be Murry's friend, whom if you may recall, were both visiting Dr. Watson and brought you to us," here he stopped again out of breath, "Hari, drew a picture of you. Apparently, he is quite the artist. You look the same in that picture as you do now."  
  
I shuddered a moment, realizing how this entire situation must seem like to him.  
  
"I do not believe in the supernatural, but I believe something to be afoot."  
  
"You do?" I asked, my eyes itched and were dry beyond belief. Perhaps there was something in this room, which was bothering me. I blinked rapidly, hoping I did so discreetly.  
  
"Yes, I do." At this he looked strait at me. "And I believe that you must explain it to me. As your physical being may be at stake."  
  
"At stake?" I questioned.  
  
"The doctor told me of his examination of you upon your consciousness and earlier while you were unconscious. The odd markings upon your,..." he hesitated, "yourself," at this he blushed slightly, ever the Victorian gentleman.  
  
"Odd markings?" In time changing and happenings I had forgotten about the so-called bruises on me. The markings, as Uncle John-no Dr. Watson in this time, I hastily reminded myself-didn't hurt, nor did I even remember attaining them.  
  
"Yes, don't you know?"  
  
"Of course I know," I replied somewhat angrily. I was suddenly very angry at the entire situation. Normally I would attempt to be calm, to be in control of the situation. However at the moment I suddenly wanted to act the distressed maiden and collapse into tears.  
  
Holmes must have seen this for one look at my face he disregarded courteous Victorian behavior and took me in his arms. His arms held me close and we were soon in a deep hug.  
  
I hung my head on his shoulder softly and then a moment later realized what he had done. So did he, for he pushed me away and stood, as though electrified.  
  
"Forgive me, Mrs. Russell, your husband! Your honor, I had no right, please if you can forgive what I have done," he begged quickly.  
  
All that I could think as he said this was that my husband would not mind in the slightest.  
  
Holmes' POV:  
  
What had I done? Disregarding a married woman's honor! A woman! I had embraced a woman! Women were sly, cunning and not to be trusted on the whole, as they were either too smart or not at all smart. I hung my head after I had asked for her forgiveness. The entire situation was perplexing and my mind dashed frantically between thoughts and pale reasonings.  
  
Mrs. Russell looked up at me from the coach silently, not moving save to blink. Then to my utter surprise she stood and faced me wholly.  
  
"Holmes, I don't know what to tell you," she said. This woman, I knew and had previously gathered was a creature of intelligence. Writing Hebrew and speaking Arabic among other things were not tasks to be done by every person, especially a woman.  
  
"Tell me everything," I knew that I had to know what was truly going on. "But not here, as I said before, I think this case or situation may be affecting your health and you should be comfortable. Baker Street should do the trick. I'm sure the doctor will be glad to see you."  
  
And so after a brief second, we left the bolthole to return to Baker Street. And I completely forgot Irene Adler, not to mention the King.  
  
Dr. Watson's POV 221 B. Baker Street  
  
I sat in a chair near the unlit fire, reading the paper slowly. News of Holmes solving his latest case was still in the paper. Recalling the last case I thought back to one before that, the Handless Murders...a series of murders that had never been solved, though through no fault of Holmes'. There was simply nothing to go on and parliament, even his brother, as I was to find, deliberately held him back.  
  
Then had come Mrs. Mary Russell. Holmes had spent a great deal of time on her, I recalled. At times I thought he still thought about her. I myself would sometimes recall the mysterious bruises upon her and other affects I had noted. After her disappearance Hari had drawn a portrait from memory. Holmes had looked upon it during the case. Later, after awhile, I had caught him glancing at it now and again. Upon seeing my glance, he would reply that a case was never complete unless it was solved. Holmes now was involved with the king of Bohemia and the case of Irene Adler; something, which I thought, would prove interesting.  
  
The door to our flat opened abruptly and I did not turn, as I knew it to be Holmes. My companion could only have caused the long strides and turn of the doorknob. What I did not expect though, was someone with Holmes.  
  
"Watson, get up old man, we have a guest!" Shouted Holmes. Immediately I knew something was up. His voice had a particular tone to it---I turned and saw why, Mrs. Mary Russell. My heart skipped a beat as I saw Holmes standing behind with not quite a grin upon his face. It was not the placid smile he sometimes, but rarely, gave out to clients, nor was it a hearty glowing one. No, the twitch in his lip was one of merriment...or so I lead myself to believe. Holmes had not "smiled" in such a way while I had known him. At the time I did not know whether this was a good thing or a bad thing.  
  
Hesitating a moment, I stood placing my paper in the fireplace accidentally. Ignoring this I stood to greet her. "Good afternoon." I said. "Pleasure to see you again." Seeing Holmes' look, which consisted of a raised eyebrow and a gesture to leave I then said, "I must be going," though suddenly I wanted to stay very much. What on earth did Holmes have in mind? "I'll have Mrs. Hudson bring up some tea shortly," I carefully added, enlisting Mrs. Hudson to find out what they would be speaking about was something I had long thought about doing if a particular client came along. No doubt Holmes knew. Not that I wanted to eavesdrop or dare say perform a spoof of espionage...at this though my line of reasoning declined and I shrugged off the slight feeling of guilt. This was the woman! The woman who had disappeared! Holmes's small grin tugged at my mind.  
  
Author's note: My, it has been awhile hasn't it? Thank you for all the reviewers, especially Lapin de la Flouve and "friend" who left me a note at my "doorstop" so to speak. ( No, Mt. Everest does not hold any particular appeal to me nor does a submarine.  
  
All righty then,...I have a few ideas, actually too many. So, how about some help from my toughest critics (besides myself) the readers! What do you want to happen next? 


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

The rectangle shaped room which featured two windows facing out onto the street greeted me like a fresh memory-which, I supposed it was. And while it had been over a year for Sherlock Holmes and co., for me it had been a few hours. Ah, the practicalities of wearing a wristwatch seemed to shout at me. However, to do justice to myself, why should I wear a wristwatch at night? Indeed, that is when this trouble had all began, at night, on our anniversary.

I stood and then was ushered to a chair, of which the Dr. Watson had formally sat.

"Come in Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes. I had not heard anything beyond the door, lost as I was in my own thoughts, but I did not doubt that there had been sounds of the small pattering of the landlady.

Through the door emerged Mrs. Hudson. With her, she carried a platter of tea.

"What would you care for some tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

Formalities (what little they were) aside, we soon embarked on a conversation, which left me rethinking earlier thoughts. How and why had I gotten here? What were the strange markings upon my belly? What was this anniversary?

The conversation included Holmes attempting to get the better of me. And by attempting, I mean really trying to figure out who I was and why I was here. At least I knew the part about my being-the question was, why was I here.

"So why the difficulties Mrs. Russell? Why the elaborate disappearance? The names? The pretenses?"

Carefully lowering my tea, I responded in the best way, when dealing with Holmes in one of his inquisitive modes-the truth. Sooner or later, I knew he would find holes in whatever story I concocted and really, I doubt I would have thought of one to fool a wandering passerby.

A simple, "Holmes I am from the future, I am your wife, I,...I...-" No, no, that would not work at all. Perhaps half-truths would be the best. He would no doubt sense something missing, but for the meantime, the bare truth would hopefully work its wonders.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I am not from this time."

"Explain," an eyebrow was raised, and the possibility of him thinking me mad, suddenly entered my mind.

"Well, what you know of me is this," I began slowly, "I appear, in the river one night. Thankfully I am brought here by companions of Dr. Watson, who rooms with you here at Baker Street. I am helped and clothed by you all and then I in turn 'run away'. Then it is discovered that I went to a hotel and checked in under an alias, under your brother's name. This, you deducted, I did solely to off balance you in my 'escape' and you did not see me again until today at your bolt hole, of which you thought to be solely in your knowledge."

"Thus far you are correct. But what of the attire? You are, if I am right, wearing my, errr, one of my disguises," his cheeks took on a faint reddening of his ownership of the maid's dress.

"Yes, well, the day I left Baker Street, I went to go to the bolt hole, as that was one of the few places I am knowledgeable enough of, that I deemed an appropriate place to go."

"Yes, and upon getting to the building, or rather lack of building, you realized that it had not been built yet."

"Indeed."

"What then? It has been over a year, explain more."

"I cannot explain more than this. When I noted the building did not yet exist I was suddenly transported forward in time. I cannot explain it."

"In time, as in travel? Are you suggesting to me that you, Mrs. Russell, participated in time travel?" He said cautiously, no type of emotion filtering through his voice.

"Yes," I attempted to keep the hesitating note out of my voice. I desperately wanted his approval in my sanity, and this reaction I knew, would mean a great deal. I watched his face intently looking for a raised eyebrow--- or a fractional tilt of the head.

Instead of reacting or continuing the present track of thought he took a new route.

"I don't suppose you realize what I am now doing?" He questioned, walking across the room and looking out onto the cobbled street. "Does your ability to walk through time, as though a garden give you the ability to know and realize yet un-happened facts?" He was fishing, I realized. --Though what type of fishing was yet unknown. He wanted to first know if I believed in what I said. Then he would decide, through deductive reasoning, whether or not he too believed me.

I drew in a quick breath, unsure of how to proceed. Our last conversation in the bolthole had touched upon acquaintanceship, as when he had in a way hugged me. I did not know how to approach the fact that my husband to be was currently working on the case involving the women. I was sure this was what he wanted to know-- Did I know what he was currently doing. Was I for real or was I a fraud.

_Author's Note:_

To all the reviewers.


	7. Chapter Seven

Authors Note:

It has almost (as it was pointed out to me) been a year since a chapter was added to this piece of fanfiction.I should have waited; it could have been a one-year-anniversary gift. Last week I updated chapter one to include a disclaimer. That disclaimer still stands. To review the disclaimer view the first chapter. With a not-so-subtle reminder from Lapin de la Flouve to update, I have, as you can see, updated. Lapin apparently enjoys this work of fanfiction. I hope other readers do as well. Oh, Lapin, just so you don't think I typed this all out this afternoon, I actually did most of it when I added the disclaimer. I had just not attached it yet. Thanks for your strained patience---voice activated computers are pricey. Enjoy everyone and, if you so desire, review. :)

**"Twisting Time"**

Chapter Seven

Real or a fraud?

As much time as I spent examining the lives and reactions of others--- I needed to think about how to deal with Holmes' reactions. A reaction in anger or disbelief should be avoided I decided.

Holmes, as long as I had known him, had the unique quality of being able to detach himself from a variety of issues. Emotions and, I can now say, love is sometimes not one that one may easily detach from. The Great Detective had indeed a heart. During the case which concerned my math tutor at Oxford (who was the daughter of a particular nemesis of Holmes') Holmes had shown obvious concern in his actions for me. Coming to my flat strait after being injured from a beehive (a bomb was inside) was something he may not have done had he not felt something for me. Distancing myself from my own situation was difficult. It was difficult to think about as well.

The only concern I had at this point, in this rather strange turn of events, was if the Holmes (the one I knew) was yet present. I was here--earlier in his life. Did MY Holmes think alone the same paths in his Baker Street life as he did in mine? In his past…or rather his present…. how terribly confusing! How anybody would react to such statements as, "I am not from this time," would be an intriguing character test. So far he had tried to test me, to see if I believed myself. That was another line of thought I needed to examine. Certainly I believed this, this, this situation! As impossible as it seemed everything around me, the sounds, scents, the feelings were as true as life.

Those thoughts, naturally, took up brief moments, and I was just about to reply to Holmes with, "The future is always in motion," or something equally vague, when I realized that the idea of replying with that statement was just foolish.

He wouldn't stand for it.

I wouldn't.

His lip twinged. He was impatient for a response. He no longer had a face of control.

"Fine," he spat out impatiently, "How is it that you knew about my bolt hole?"

Oh dear, I thought softly. An effect I had not anticipated. I searched quickly for an appropriate answer.

As I sat starring up into the not-quite-as hawk-like features of Holmes, I was ready to burst with the truth. The entire truth. The bolthole question had finally done it. To hell with him thinking me mad! Maybe I was. But I needed his help nonetheless. I then heard something, a cry--- fierce shout. Were we ever to have a conversation? "Damn it!"

Holmes lifted two eyebrows at my outcry of frustration but quickly pushed that aside for later. He too apparently heard the shout (from the street) for his eyes jumped from mine to a window. He stood and quickly peered out the window searching the cobbled streets for something. As one we had moved, a flicker of something showed in his eye--he was surprised, dare I say pleased, at my action.

No words were exchanged between us as we scanned the street. I looked about, my eyes trailing the movements of a group of particularly wild street urchins. The irregulars? One of them, a particularly dirty one, waved up his hand. It was a sign of greeting and not distress. Holmes answered back with a flop of the hand (I believe he was waving) and continued to look about. I felt his breath of the back of my neck….good heavens…unconsciously, I leaned into the faint touch.

Was it immoral of me, to do this? He was my husband, even if he did not know it. I felt my cheeks redden and was reminded of his actions in the bolthole. He had returned the embrace…if I dare venture to call it that…momentarily, before turning away at having "hugged" a married woman. I continued to feel his breath…. he must know that I felt something for him. Why was he not moving away, did he not realize what he was doing to me?

With a shudder, I mentally berated myself for the foolish thoughts. Think Russell! Think! Now is not the time. We were just getting somewhere in conversation! It is important that it is discovered why you are here…very important. You are not a maiden that is prone to romantic swoons or encounters. This is important!

Important.

Important.

Repeating the word did not help.

He was the Holmes I knew, and yet he was not. He did not know of our past…rather our future…he did not know me. Even as I thought this, he moved my shoulders, turning me to face him. He could not know me.

The disasters of time travel interference were speculated by many scholars.

One action affects another and so on.

This action, this sudden movement of his thumb to my face…

One action affects another…

And so on…

This needed to be stopped. My words rang out at me. Yet the noise merely tormented my mind. My body had no qualms to its ringing words. Neither did Holmes.

He looked at me, as he would any specimen under a microscope with deepest scrutiny, though I like to think he studied me differently…. I stared in turn at him.

"What is damned?" He asked regarding my earlier statement. He shifted forward so that I in turn was pressed gently against a cluttered bookcase. I lent back, and he loomed above me. His voice was soft. It had a tone I had never heard from him. Not even when he was covered in oil and filth and proposing with distinct heart-felt desperation…not even on our wedding night.

Oh god.

One hand continued to trace my cheek, the other dropped down to my waist. Through the thin fabric of the maid's attire, I felt his hand at my side. Ever the Victorian gentlemen? His bold actions drifted through my mind. Yet they were not bold. Not really. His hand at my waist moved slightly, his fingers spreading while his mouth lingered above mine.

Holmes peered into my bespeckled eyes and leaned forward, my lips rose slightly.

A bright flash of pain zipped through my being.

My vision blared, while I tried to breath in quickly. My eyes watered, and my throat tightened. I distantly felt him move back, eyes widened.

His hand had come upon my belly. The soft force he had used at my waist with the tips of his fingers had found the odd markings upon my abdomen.

Never had I felt such pain. Not even when I had been struck with a bullet.

He had used no pressure, yet I felt as though my life were to end. Still I tried to breathe, yet for some reason the marks upon my stomach continued to throb in pain. What was this? I felt hands at my shoulders. And the sensation, of being guided down to the floor of the flat.

Everything was spinning. The colors. I couldn't see. Holmes!

Holmes! Where was he?

"Holmes! I am your wife!" Did I say it? I couldn't tell. My throat….I couldn't see him…What was happening?

"Watson!" I heard a cry. Was it Holmes? Did I shout? No. My throat was too tight. Tighter still.

Holmes?

I couldn't feel the wood against my back anymore.

I couldn't feel Holmes' breath against my cheek.

Holmes?

The sensations continued. And then, I could no longer feel anything.


End file.
